Mothers Are Never There When You Need Them
by Lauraeffingiero
Summary: A oneshot about Gunther's last thoughts on his mother as he is dying on the battlefield. I snuck a teensy bit of Jane/Gunther in, just 'cause I couldn't resist. It's kind of depressing, really dark, and probably awful, but please review - I beg of you!


**Disclaimer:** Yeah, yeah, yeah, I don't own Jane and the Dragon. Do you have to keep reminding me?

**Notes:** Okay, I don't even know what the heck is going on with this story/oneshot thing. I just finished a book about an hour ago about this girl who hates her mother for abandoning her, and I just went *click!* GUNTHER ONESHOT! So, yeah, I just came up with this out of nowhere, so it might be amazingly awful, and I might end up completely regretting posting it, but either way, whether you love it or hate it, please, please, PLEASE review! I'll even totally be fine with flames! That's how desperate I am for reviews! (This is actually really sad, because I'm totally honest about the flame thing. Just review, 'kay? Even if it's something completely random, like how finals are coming up and you're really nervous - cause, oh, God, I know _I_ am.)

Oh, and also, the story kind of jumps around a bit, because it's supposed to read like a dying person's mind, and I'm sure that people don't think too good on a single topic when they're about to snuff it. (They also probably don't think like how I wrote this either - they probably don't think too much at all - I bet they just scream _a lot_. That's what I would do.)

Okay, one more thing - I'm planning to update my other story pretty soon, I just have to put some finishing touches on Chapter 6. Not that anyone probably cares about that.

Anyway, review. Now.

* * *

I imagine she is beautiful. My mother, I mean.

I bet she has dark, dark hair – hair the color of ink. And pale skin, too, just like my father and I. But she cannot be quite as pale as my father; because otherwise I would not have inherited that ability to darken in the sun – I would simply turn the color Father does… that unattractive shade of a cooked lobster.

She must have loved me – surely she did. Because that is what mothers do, is it not? That is what they are there for. To love their children. To protect them.

That is what Jane's mother does.

Stupid Jane.

She does not realize how lucky she is, having a mother – I would kill to have a mother.

Even one like Jane's.

…But it was different when I was younger – I did not _want_ a mother. I _hated_ mothers – every single last one. Because they were not_ my_ mother. Because they loved their children so much more than my mother had ever loved me; because they did not leave… because they did not abandon their children.

That is what she did.

She abandoned me.

She left me all alone with him. She left me with someone who forgets that he has a son at all.

But really, it is worse when he remembers. When I have to haul an entire ship load to or from the docks, because he is too cheap for labor, when I have to lie to the only person I care about, because his ever-greedy mind wants something, when I have to do bad things, _awful_ things… all of it for money. Money, money, money. It is all he cares about. All he has ever cared about. All he ever _will_ care about.

They pity me, I know.

The Castle staff.

The villagers.

Jane.

Jane pities me.

She pities me the way you pity a beaten dog, a dog that has been beaten far too much and much too long, so that pain is all it knows, and all it can give to others.

And I do not want her pity. Or their pity. I do not want _anyone's_ pity.

Because pity cannot save me. Pity does not soothe a slash from a sword, or stem the flow of blood, and pity certainly does not fix everything that is wrong inside.

It just makes me feel dirty.

Like I really am a beaten dog, a starving mutt in the streets, covered in grime and blood from old wounds.

Wherever my beautiful mother is, I hope she is happy.

I hope she married someone with kind eyes and a smile that makes you feel right inside, like Jane's smile.

I hope she had another son, and I hope she gave him everything she could not give me.

I hope he does not die in a muddy battlefield, as filthy and bruised as a beaten dog, dripping with blood and far too weak to call for help that could never come quick enough.

I hope he lives the life I never had.


End file.
